STILL are the meadowlands, and still Ripens the upland corn, And over the brown gradual hill The moon has dipped a horn. The voices of the dear unknown With silent hearts now call, My rose of youth is overblown And trembles to the fall. My song forsakes me like the birds That leave the rain and grey, I hear the music of the words My lute can never say. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTEMPLATIONS by ANNE BRADSTREET A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS by HENRY KING (1592-1669) BILLY IN THE DARBIES, FR. BILLY BUDD by HERMAN MELVILLE MEMORIAL TO D.C.: 5. ELEGY by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY A SERENADE AT THE VILLA by ROBERT BROWNING ADDRESSED TO A LADY by ROBERT BURNS A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 4 by THOMAS CAMPION |